And though there are no planes

And though there are no planesit’s still a room, is standing byhas winds side by sidethe way this fleece-lined jacketnever dries, hangs from the ceilingaround and around, looseningin the ice, struggling with moonsand the drop by drop from your chestleft open for more skypoints to rain, to engines, wings, oilno longer spreading through these wallsas the dim light near the window.

Simon Perchik's poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker, and elsewhere.